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paleness of her sorrow it seemed to sit like a shroud. They made large
masses of her hair to flow dishevelled down her neck, and mingled with it
locks of wool, to signify that, in her new station, she was to imitate the
purity of the vestals, whose peculiar emblem it was. The extremities of her
long ringlets were curled and arranged with the steel of a lance; and among
her attendants there were many pretty flutterings and drawings-back as they
handled so terrible a comb. Then they suffered her to wait in quiet the
approach of the bridegroom. He was not long in his coming. They drew
over her head the crown of vervain, and concealed her deathlike features
beneath the flame-coloured veil. They put on, too, the yellow slippers,
which it was the fashion for brides to wear: they were so contrived as to add
considerably to the height, but Julia’s was so much diminished by sadness
and disease, that even with this assistance she did not seem near her usual
stature.
It was night; and she was borne to the house of her husband by the light
of flambeaux. Three young persons, whose parents were still living, were
her conductors. Two supported her, and Julia indeed stood in need of
support; the third walked before her, bearing a torch of pine. A distaff and
spindle, a child’s coral, and other emblems of her future duties, were carried
behind her. Her friends and relations also followed, each bearing in his arms
some present to the new married couple. Cœlius was among them, but he
concealed his face in the folds of his gown, and his smothered sighs
attracted no observation.
At last they came to the threshold of the bridegroom: it was tastefully
adorned with wreaths of flowers; and woollen fillets, smeared with oil, were
hung round to keep out enchantments. The master of the house stood at the
door, and the crowd gathered round it to witness the conclusion of the
ceremony.
They asked her, according to custom, under what title she came? She had
opened her lips to answer, when Cœlius ran forward and threw himself
between Marcius and his beloved. “Oh! no, no!” he cried; “I cannot hear it!
—do not, do not kill me quite!” “Back, back!” she said, shuddering. “Shall I
not obey my father?” The youth heard not—saw not; he was led away,
senseless and unresisting; and the ceremony proceeded. Again she was
asked under what title she came; and she answered, as was prescribed for
her, in a low but distinct tone, “Ubi tu Caius, ego Caia!”[7] They lifted her
from the ground, for it was reckoned an evil omen to touch the threshold in
her entrance. They lifted her from the ground, and she spoke no word, and
made no struggle. But ere they had set down her foot upon her husband’s
floor, she trembled with a convulsive quivering, and her head fell back upon
the youth who supported her left shoulder. Again they put down their
burden, but it was quite motionless! They tore the veil from her head—her
look was fixed and quiet—her eye open and dull! She was quite dead!
PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE OF PEREGRINE
COURTENAY.
I.
II.
My dear Benjamin,
Allow me to congratulate you upon the happy termination of your literary
labours. Allow me to congratulate you, not hypocritically, or sarcastically,
or triumphantly, but sincerely, and as a friend. We have been long opposed
to each other, as writers; and although the sword of attack was sheathed by
me almost as soon as it was drawn, on your side its point has been
constantly protruded in a very threatening attitude. I mean not to complain
of this; I will say nothing but what is civil and conciliatory; it would be
unmanly in me to do otherwise, now that my adversary is hors du combat.
Well then, you have said your say, and we will, if you please,
Leave this keen encounter of our wits,
And fall to something of a slower method.
III.
My dear Public,
How rejoiced I feel in being able to rid myself of all weighty affairs for a
few minutes, and sit down to a little private conversation with you. I am
going, as usual, to be very silly, and very talkative, and I have so much to
say that I hardly know where to begin.
Allow me to congratulate you upon the flourishing state of your affairs.
There has been a Coronation, and you have had lighting of lamps, and
drinking of ale, and breaking of heads, to you heart’s content; and there are
two new novels coming from Sir Walter, and the King is going to Ireland,
and Mr. Kean is come from America, and—here is No. X. of the Etonian!
How happy you must be!
But you will have to pay an extra shilling for it. I hope you will not be
angry. The fact is, that the approaching conclusion of our work has put into
our contributors such a spirit of goodwill and exertion, that we found it
quite impossible to comprise their benefactions within our usual limits,
although I myself gave up to them many of my own pages, and burned
several first-rate articles, especially one “On the Digamma,” which would
have had a surprising effect. For, to parody the poet,
Those write now, who never wrote before,
And those who always wrote, now write the more.
And you will be satisfied, I think, with the augmentation of bulk and of
price, when you consider what you would have lost if such a step had not
been adopted. Perhaps you might not have had “The Bride of the Cave;”
perhaps you might not have had “The Hall of my Fathers;” perhaps you
might not have had—oh, yes! you certainly should have had “Maimoune,”
though it had filled our whole number. But you would not have had my
“Private Correspondence,” which I should have regretted extremely,
although my modesty hints to me that you would not have cared a rush
about the matter.
I used to promise, you will remember, that in all and in each of our
numbers, twenty pages only should be devoted to our foreign
correspondents. This resolution was, I believe, rigidly adhered to during the
existence of the Salt-Bearer; but since his exit I have grown more idle and
less scrupulous. In our present number you will find a much greater
proportion of matter from the Universities. I tell you so fearlessly, because
you are, in no small degree, a gainer by the fraud.
When I look back on my life, my dear public, I cannot help thinking
what a life of impudence, what a life of hoaxing, what a life of singularity, I
have led. If all the brass I have shown in my writings could be transferred to
my monument, my memory would be immortal. I have told, in print, more
lies than ever Munchausen did; and, in the sphere of my existence, have
been guilty of as much deceit as the Fortunate Youth. As for the “Letter to
the King,” however, I can’t, for the life of me, see a grain of impertinence in
its composition; all I wonder at is that it did not procure a holiday for Eton,
nor knighthood for Sir Thomas, nor a thousand a year for myself.
Nevertheless, in spite of the mortifying silence with which my
communication was received, I am happy to observe that our Etonians
continue very loyal. On the night of the Coronation, when the mob said
“Queen!” the boys said “King!” and many, forthwith, risked their own
crowns in behalf of his Majesty’s. But whether this proceeded from the love
of loyalty, or the love of blows, must remain a question.
Howbeit, I am not naturally addicted to impudence, or hoaxing, or
singularity. To convince you of this, I had at one time an intention of
drawing up a memoir of my own life, containing an accurate detail of my
thoughts and words and actions during the whole period which my memory
comprehends. I found it very difficult to settle the title of my book. Should
it be the stately “Life of Peregrine Courtenay, Esq., of the College of Eton,
foolscap octavo”? or should it be the quaint “Notice of a Gentleman who
has left Long Chamber?” or should it be the concise and attractive
“Peregriniana”? It was a weighty affair; and I abandoned the design before I
could settle the point. For I at last began to believe, my public, that this is
all of which you ought to be informed—that I have lived long at Eton, and
that have I edited the Etonian; that I am now bidding farewell to the first,
and writing the epilogue of the other.
I leave Eton at a peculiarly auspicious time. Her cricket is very good this
year (I wish we could have had a meeting with Harrow, but Diis aliter
visum est), and her boats are unusually well manned, and there are in her
ranks more youths of five-feet-ten than I have seen for a long time. She has
also just effected the establishment of a public library, which has been so
spiritedly supported by our alumni themselves, and by the friends of the
school, that it is already rising into importance. And, thanks to the exertions
of many who have been our friends, and a few of our correspondents, she
maintains a high ground at the Universities. I am bound for Cambridge
myself; but this is nothing at all to concern you, inasmuch as I do not mean
to edit a Cantab.
I resign my office too at a propitious moment, before time has quelled
the enthusiasm with which it was entered upon—before warmth and
impetuosity have yielded to weariness and disgust. My spirits are still
unabated, my friends are still untired, and you, my public, are still kind! I
might have waited to experience the sinking of the first, the anger of the
second, and alas! the fickleness of the third. It is well that I stop in time.
I have two drawers of my bureau filled, almost to bursting, with divers
manuscripts; I am afraid to open either of them, lest somebody passionate,
or somebody stupid, or somebody wearisome should stare me in the face.
Of these compositions, my pages witness against me that I have promised
insertion to many, and my conscience witnesses against me that I ought to
have given insertion to many more. I don’t know what to do with them. I
have some thoughts of sending them to my publisher’s in a lump, or
bequeathing them as a legacy to my successors. I believe, however, my
better plan may be to put them up to auction. Amongst the numerous
authors, great and small, good and bad, who are at the present day wasting
their pen, ink, paper, and time, in “doing honour to Eton,” I cannot but think
that some of my literary treasures would fetch a pretty good price. There are
all the articles, of which we have at various times given notice; some of
which I know our readers are dying to see. But these form but a trifling part
of the heap; I will subjoin a few specimens of my wares, but catalogues
shall, of course, be printed previous to the sale.
Several “Reminiscences”—very useful for writers who wish to recollect
what never occurred.
A few “Visions,” “Musings,” “Odes,” &c.—a great bargain to any young
person who wants to be interesting, or unintelligible.
“Edmund Ironside, an Old English Tale,” in the style of “The Knight and
the Knave,” very valuable—in consequence of the Quarterly’s hint about
“Ivanhoe.”
“Thoughts on the Coronation,” to be had for a trifle, as the article is a
common one, and will not keep.
A great many “Classical Tales,” strongly recommended to those authors
who are not learned, and wish to be thought so.
A large bundle of “Notices to Correspondents,” admirably adapted to the
use of those who have none.
A portfolio of cursory hints, remarks, puns, introductory observations,
windings-up, &c., capable of serving any purpose to which the purchaser
likes to put them.
With such a repository, it will be evident that, if the Fates were willing
that I should proceed in my undertaking, I should be in no want of support.
This, however, is not the decree of the Destinies; I must go, and like him
who